Eccentricities
by Personality Test
Summary: "Your dad is a multi-millionaire, and you work as a shrink for emotionally troubled cops who are so high-strung that even a fountain pen becomes a health hazard." Steven/Cynthia, Blacksteelshipping, AU.


**A/N: It's been so long since I last wrote something about Pokemon...I'm not about to return to the Pokemon fandom any time soon because of my KagePro addiction and life getting in the way, but I figured that since I'd had this thing lying around in my computer for a year I might as well post it.**

**Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!**

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><p><strong>.<strong>

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"Ugh, I hate paperwork." She groaned as another tall stack was placed on the table with a thud.

Today was Christmas, for crying out loud. She was supposed to be home to celebrate, or at least get away from the freezing cold, not sitting hunched over filling two months' worth of files, and definitely not with the weird forensics guy laughing at her throughout the span of two hours.

"Suck it up, sweetheart." Wallace snickered. Cynthia felt the urge to punch his girly face. "Not my fault you dogged your way out of paperwork for two months. Hurry it up, or you'll be late for your date with my best buddy."

She leveled one of her quality glares at his annoying smirk. "It's not a date, it's a session with a shrink who happens to be your best friend. I've been dying to get out of his stuffy office but then Red would have my head for it. Apparently Yellow couldn't stand me with post-traumatic stress without a doctor to prescribe my meds, but his sticking his nose to my business is way too far. Can I sue him?"

Wallace laughed like that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Yeah well, good luck with that. Going against Steven is equivalent to a free card to bankruptcy, humiliation or whatever floats your boat. He'd destroy you in court, honey."

Well, this was news to her. To her knowledge, Steven was not particularly vicious or wealthy enough for a legal team.

In fact, once when Cynthia actually passed by his place to demand him to give her a few more pills or she'd flip (or pull her out her gun and shoot anything in the facility – she couldn't decide which) his apartment was sparse, with nothing but necessities… and a bunch of rocks he collected somewhere she didn't even want to know.

That did make her wonder why he was being a shrink when he could totally make a career out of collecting rare stones, though.

"I work as a psychiatrist – not a shrink as you so often say – and I like collecting stones. One is an occupation, and another is a hobby. There is a difference." He had once said in a manner that was both condescending and sophisticated at the same time, while sipping his tea like a true English gentleman.

And Red wondered why she thought his office was stuffy.

"Okay, screw this." Cynthia hit the table with a loud bang. "I've read crazy mythology less surreal than this. I'm out of here." She grabbed her bag and started walking out of the door, leaving a dumbstruck Wallace behind.

"But…but what about your paperwork? And this mess? What do you expect me to do about it? Rather, where are you going at this time?" Cynthia felt something like triumph at Wallace's flustered expression. Whoever said revenge was unfulfilling totally needed to get a hold of themselves – or a glass of rather strong red wine. There was no difference, really.

"Going on the date with my psychiatrist, as you so eloquently put it. And since it's your fault to begin with, have fun cleaning up." She added a maniacally grin, which made Wallace cower just slightly. "Goodnight."

Cynthia slammed the door closed and started walking, whistling all the way.

…Until she remembered just where she was going and her car keys are in the exact place she just made a dramatic exit out of, for god's sake.

Wallace was going to have one hell of a field day, she just knew it.

* * *

><p>Cynthia stomped in with all the rage of a protective mother dragon and a no-nonsense glare that could make any newbies run for their mama. Unfortunately, Steven was nowhere near affected, which just irked her even more.<p>

"Good day, Miss Cynthia, although it was rather tactless of me considering your attitude and this funny picture Wallace just sent me." Steven began, and Cynthia had already wanted to turn tail and run away. "I think he's still recovering from his stomachache for laughing too much – it's generally how he is. I hope you excuse him; I've gotten used to it so much it's not even a surprise anymore."

He smiled and gestured to the seat opposite to him.

"Sorry for bothering you on Christmas; rest assured that I don't want to do this any more than you do. The Captain believes that the less you are treated to psychotherapy, the less likely you are to lash out at other officers, so we'll only be meeting for three more weeks, not counting this one, instead of the usual six. It's for Officer Aaron's wellbeing as well," he half-smiled into what looked remotely like a smirk, and Cynthia stiffened. Poor kid who got the brunt of her attention…but an apology ought to suffice, right? "…or he'll be subject to one or two sessions himself."

"In short," she cut in. "You don't give a crap about me."

"No, of course I don't. I'm just the guy who gets paid to talk to you about whatever you want; speaking of which, I hear there is a football match – Blastoise Cannons versus the Renegades – that is supposed to be the most-awaited game..."

"Steven." Cynthia interrupted sharply, and the air descended into silence.

To be honest, she didn't know why she lashed out like that, because that was way below her normal anger point and she wasn't supposed to feel like crap just because he told her the truth. He didn't care about her more than he cared about any of his patients, which was practically nothing, really.

Her first session ever, he sat calm and collected as usual and said straight to her face that he didn't give a damn about her, and if Cynthia wanted comfort she might as well go to the people who really the time, she nodded and ranted about paperwork like she might have talked to Candice or Maylene, but right now Cynthia was a little disappointed and she didn't know why.

"Oh, yes. Back to the point. So, what do you want to talk about today?" He recovered just as quickly and said as if there wasn't an air of thick tension between them. "If I recall correctly, the first week, you broke quite a few antique vases, after which the superiors decided to move you somewhere without dangerous projectiles – a smart decision from Miss Yellow, if I do say so myself. And then the second time, you yelled in my face and stormed out because you 'suddenly felt twitchy or something like that'. I did receive the apology message, so it was not a total failure like the first was."

Her face must've been as red as a tomato already, and she felt equally embarrassing. That text message was a moment of sentimentality, because Cynthia knew when to admit her own faults and in retrospect, him recounting her dramatic childhood was just a professional psychologist business and not as mocking as she had initially thought.

At least he didn't laugh when it got to her teenage years – she couldn't imagine Wallace's reaction at those humiliating files.

"Three…ah, there it is." Cynthia snapped out of her train of thought as Steven continued. "You were having a particularly bad day – something involving ex-convicts and failed stakeout, according to your disorganized reports. Great work on the report as usual, but you certainly give our archive guy an insane headache."

Oh, right, that one. She still had to apologize to Hawes...

"Moving on…you barged in here looking like a truck just hit you, and then left before I even had the chance to say something insulting. The next day, you were reported to have yelled in Aaron's face when he came over to say hello, which was just bad manners, really. And now here we are." Steven finished, stacked her files together and placed it back to the cabinet right next to him.

He rummaged through his bag and she rolled her eyes. Not his dumb recorder again – she was pretty sure she had smashed one of those a few weeks ago.

"I always have spares." He answered, much to her surprise. "Many like to find stuff to throw around in one of their outbursts, especially Detectives like you. May I suggest anger management?"

"Just get this over with, if you don't mind." She growled back.

* * *

><p><strong>Week 4.<strong>

Psychotherapy session between Doc. Steven Stone and Det. Cynthia (_note: subject absolutely refuses to disclose anything further than her first name, which suggests a sign of insecurity_)

SS: Well, you're back. How did your week go?

C: Fine. Just dandy.

SS: …

C: …What? I'm not going to spill my life story just because you're my shrink.

SS: No one asks you to.

C: Well, that's just fine, then. Good for them. Yeah.

SS: …

C: Fine, you little schemer. I've had a horrible day, alright?

SS: I figured.

C: Hardy har har. So you're a psychic now?

SS: Once again, I suggest anger management. Working under too much pressure does you no good.

C: Like you would know. And then you'll tell me 'I would know' in that condescending tone of yours, and I'll try to smash your recorder and storm out again.

SS: It seems that the psychic isn't me, but that's certainly not my point.

C: Well then, Mr. High and Mighty, whatever is your point?

SS: For one, do elaborate on your definition of a horrible day.

C: Last time I checked, Christmas was a time of nice, quiet, relaxing and fun or all that whatever. And today I let a lead go cold, did a month's worth of paperwork before storming out, and forgot my car keys and suffered through Wallace's taunting, and I'm stuck here with you for the next hour. That's my definition.

SS: Your definition of Christmas is screwed.

C: Do tell. (_note: a surprisingly biting tone, which does prove that the subject is incredibly bitter. Again, anger management is advised._)

SS: Christmas is a time for family, reunions and imagination-inspired Santa Claus – which you have none of. To my knowledge, you have no close family, your distant relatives live in Orre and you can't actually make it there in one day. And you don't believe in Santa Claus, which is a crucial point.

C: Wow, and I'm the one who needs common sense. Listen up, Steven, because I'm going to be stuck with you for another three weeks of my life – you've got all my files, you practically know my biography by heart, I get that. But then I'm not asking you to sit there and pretend that you've watched the whole movie and knew all the lines, and don't act that way. See, Wallace told me something that got me thinking; he said you'd destroy me in court if I ever filed a lawsuit against you, which piqued my interest and I realized I know practically nothing about you. Only thing I know, you don't hoard your other patients half as much as me, and I want an explanation. Compensation, too, while I'm at it.

SS: Are you done?

C: Yes, I believe I am.

SS: Wallace told you a lot. Unfortunately, I can't give you your explanation, but you are entitled to compensation. What do you want to know?

C: You're giving me free reign? Who are you, clone, and what have you done to the asshole shrink?

SS: That was uncalled for, don't you think?

C: Fine, I'm sorry. Okay, what did Wallace mean when he said I wouldn't be able to win against you?

SS: Probably because I minored in Law. Oh, and the legal team I'm acquainted with, if that was what he meant.

C: You have a legal team? What are you, a corporate tycoon?

SS: No, but my father is. He wants me to inherit the company, but I rather dislike business.

C: Your dad is a multi-millionaire, and you work as a shrink for emotionally troubled cops who are so high-strung that even a fountain pen becomes a health hazard. You need a doctor or, rich as you are, a whole asylum – I can't decide which.

SS: You do realize that last description applies to you as well.

C: Yes, yes I do. Why did you decide to major in Psychology of all things?

SS: That is one question I can't answer – in fact, you have only four questions left. I simply can't have you intruding too much in my personal life.

C: This coming from the guy who memorized my files.

SS: I plead the fifth.

_(long pause)_

C: …Screw it, I can't think of anything right now.

SS: Nothing? Not even favorite color or preferred pastime?

C: I can threaten to cut off Wallace's espresso intake and he'll sing like a bird.

SS: It's true. Very much violent, but true. Are you planning to do that now? The hour is almost over, anyway.

C: No way in hell. I'm going home – it's Christmas.

SS: For reasons I mentioned above, Christmas means nothing more to you than a day of nostalgia, which makes you more irritated anyway. And since you have nothing to do, it's better to go out and interact with people than being a couch potato and watching Desperate Housewives reruns.

C: …How do you know I watch Desperate Housewives? It wasn't anywhere in my files, I checked.

SS: Oh, did you?

C: You liar, you even have the recorder right there!

SS: Dear me, I suppose this recorder is broken. I'll have to buy a new one.

C: You slimy little… Give it here this ins –"

_*click*_

**Footnote: Saved this recording for future reference and personal collection.**

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><p><strong>Week 5.<strong>

Psychotherapy session between Dr. Steven Stone and Det. Cynthia _(refer to week 4 for added notes)_

C: Okay, so I have one question.

SS: Oh?

C: Why do you take a particular interest with me? I saw your other cases, and they were promised the something-something psychiatrist rule where the doctor isn't allowed to disclose personal information. Why me?

SS: …Do I get a free pass?

C: I suppose. Just one, so I'd advise using it wisely.

SS: Fair enough. About your question, it seems that you misunderstood what they meant. The psychiatrist is not allowed to disclose patients' personal information to third parties, but he or she is free to discuss with the patients themselves in a session. The second question of yours – it's because you are an interesting case. Far more interesting than most, I can assure you.

C: So I'm your little experimental subject? Is that it?

SS: Does that count as a question?

C: No, of course not! Consider it…a sub-question, if you will.

SS: You have a penchant for finding loopholes of the law. Maybe you should be a lawyer - note the sarcasm. In the crude sense, I suppose you are a subject, but take no offense. It's not something particularly harmful, and especially not compared to that gunshot in the back you got a couple months ago, which brought you to my office in the first place.

C: Gee, rub salt in the wound, why don't you? Fine, I guess the answer is acceptable.

SS: I'm honored.

C: Second question. Why do you speak like an English gentleman every freaking time? I know you talk like normal people, but every time I see you suddenly you go all cynically formal and it pisses me off.

SS: I want an immunity deal before answering this question.

C: No deal, but I can promise I won't poke you in the eye with a fountain pen.

SS: Good enough. Because it's fun, seeing you trying to restrain yourself from throwing something at me.

C: Sadistic bastard.

SS: I'm thinking of formally sadistic, actually.

C: Potato, potahto. Oh, wait, now that I remember – you never told me how you knew about the Desperate Housewives thing. Spill.

SS: I don't know what you're talking about. Is it a question?

C: Yes, you do, and no, it isn't a question. It's a threat – answer or I _will _poke your eyes out.

SS: You promised not to.

C: I don't know what you're talking about.

SS: Touché.

C: ...

SS: I'm simply well-informed.

C: You're a stalker is what you are.

SS: You keep thinking that. For now, I suppose our hour is up.

C: What –

_*click*_

**Footnote: This recording has excluded a rather heated argument at the end between the subject and the proponent.**

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><p><em>Facebook Login success. You are now logged in as Steven Stone.<em>

**Wallace**: Hey, dude, how did your date with the spitfire go?

**Steven Stone**: It wasn't a date.

**Wallace**: C'mon, dude, I'm dying over here. She's mumbling to herself about poking your eyes out, which means the date must've been a success, right? Right?

**Steven Stone**: I told you it wasn't a date.

**Wallace**: Yeah, yeah. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt, you know.

**Steven Stone**: Did Cynthia teach you that?

**Wallace**: Yeah. Did she tell you?

**Steven Stone**: No. It just sounded like something she would say.

**Wallace**: You're screwed, you know that?

**Steven Stone**: No, I don't.

**Wallace**: Yes you do.

**Steven Stone**: No I don't. What are you doing going on Facebook, anyway? You're supposed to be working.

**Wallace**: I am. The voice recognition program is still working nicely last time I checked. This nifty little program is one lovely little gimmick.

**Steven Stone**: You used 'little' twice. And I'll tell Winona you insulted her voice recognition algorithm.

**Wallace**: I didn't, you liar.

**Steven Stone**: Last I checked, 'gimmick' is an insult.

**Wallace**: Screw you. Shit – boss dead ahe

_**Wallace **__has signed off._

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><p><strong>Cynthia<strong>: Wallace wants you to know that it's your fault he got reprimanded and you are going to take full responsibility.

**Steven Stone**: He must be joking. How did you find my account?

**Cynthia**: Wallace.

**Steven Stone**: With that, every argument he's got against me is invalid.

**Cynthia**: I'm not even going to pretend to understand. Anyway, have you heard the news?

**Steven Stone**: You mean the one about your barely acceptable attitude and you only have one more session before being free from my stuffy office once and for all? Yes, I daresay I've heard.

**Cynthia**: Oh, okay then. I'll see you tomorrow.

**Steven Stone**: Five o'clock sharp, Detective. See you.

_**Cynthia**__ has signed off._

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><p><strong>Week 6<strong>

Psychotherapy session between Dr. Steven Stone and Det. Cynthia _(final recording)_

SS: So, it's the last time you're ever going to be here.

C: Why, yes. Maybe. But then maybe I'll get shot again and get sent here again and you'll start recording with your endless bunch of recorders.

SS: …What do you want to talk about?

C: This feels strangely familiar. Was it like the first week or the second?

SS: Second, I believe. And then you couldn't think of anything and when I began to suggest calming down, you yelled at me and stormed out. Is this time going to be the same? Because I do not want to suffer through your PMS again.

C: It wasn't PMS, you dolt. I was just…twitchy, that's all. Did I say twitchy in the email or something else?

SS: I'll ignore that for one second. Putting that aside, are there any questions you want to ask? You have two left, I believe. Might as well rip the bandage off, don't you think?

C: Fine. First question, umm… Dammit, I still can't think clearly. I just don't know what to ask. Uh...I want an answer to the first question. Why you're specializing in Psych.

SS: I want my free pass.

C: Not an option - I pick the free pass. It's in the contract.

SS: ...I didn't read that properly before signing, did I?

C: You're nothing like a business tycoon.

SS: Fine. It's because I'm mentally unstable - formerly multiple personalities and now bipolar disorder, and I need a way to cure myself. Happy now?

C: You're...you're what?

SS: Don't sound so surprised. You must have noticed that my behavior differs greatly each time you see me.

C: Well how was I to know? I don't specialize in empathy. I specialize in guns and catching criminals.

SS: How about we do this? I ask you one question, you ask me one in return. It seems only fair, since you asked me so many questions and all.

C: That's the lamest attempt to divert the conversation I've ever seen. Fine, do that. I can't think of anything anyway. How the heck do you manage to think straight in this tiny space?

SS: Are you claustrophobic?

C: I've survived being here with you for weeks. Do you think I'm claustrophobic?

SS: …Are you drunk? You sound like you're drunk.

C: So what if I am? What's it got to do with you? Is it a Twenty Questions game?

SS: So that's why you were acting so strangely. What prompted the rare occasion?

C: Well your office and the Veilstone Casino aren't very different, are they?

SS: Are you implying that my office is the same as the _Veilstone Casino_?

C: Go blow a fuse, and no. They just have that amazing ability to piss me off and drive me crazy at the same time. Offense meant.

SS: ...You need to go home and rest. I'll tell Wallace you weren't feeling well, and he can make the excuse for you instead. I'm not sticking my nose in this.

C: So is it mean-Steven now? Is that one of your little personalities or bipolar whatever?

SS: After-effects. The real episode was two days ago.

C: You're a freak.

SS: So I've been told.

C: ...I'll rephrase that. You're a sophisticated, arrogant, probing English-gentlemanlike bipolar freak. And somehow I like you anyway.

SS: How very - come again?

C: Nothing. Forget it. I'll get myself out, thanks for the assist, I feel all better now, goodbye.

SS: Wait -

_*slam*_

SS: ...This feels like the PMS episode all over again.

_*click*_

**Footnote: This recording was backed up and copied in several USBs and hard drives. In some copies, some words were edited to preserve the privacy of the subject.**

_P.S. Good job, buddy. Now I can proudly say you're _both _screwed, and Winona's gonna flip when she hears about it. You owe me a beer._

_P.P.S. Nice job 'preserving privacy', but not good enough. Another note, next time don't leave a copy in my flash drive in a hidden folder – I always set the 'show hidden files' to _on_. Well, there is a chance you know it full well and just want to tell me in that freaky way you're used to. _

…_Nah, there's no way. Good luck with your girl, you're gonna need it._

_P.P.P.S. Does it count as a whirlwind romance if you guys just up and change your relationship status after two years of sexual tension? Because it sure as hell didn't seem that way to me. Lemme go ask Winona and I'll get back to you._

_._

_._

.

**End.**


End file.
